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Ba Loo Laa Lay, Ba Loo Laa Low
by Stephen Lucek

He sings his mother
a lullaby,
sucking vodka-flavored
film from his front teeth,
waxing and waning
his tone-shape.

He entertains
thoughts of running free;

saturated thoughts
of someone else;
a place;
a notch
in a mountain where the snow
melts in April,
and the meadow blooms in June.

A spot, a time, each invariably
affecting the other
setting scenes that thirty-two
years can't keep.

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